Distress

Three persisted, “Ask ver how Muteba Kazadi died.”

I said, “He was seventy-eight years old.” I struggled to recall what his biographers had said about his death; given his age, I hadn’t paid much attention. “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘cerebral hemorrhage.'”

Three laughed, disbelieving, and a chill ran through me. Of course they had more than pure information theory behind their beliefs: they also had at least one mythical death by forbidden knowledge— to validate everything, to convince them that the abstractions had teeth.

I said, “Okay. But if Muteba didn’t bring down the universe when he went… why should Mosala?”

“Muteba wasn’t a TOE theorist; he couldn’t have become the Keystone. No one knows exactly what he was doing; all his notes have been lost. But some of us think he found a way to mix with information—and when it happened, the shock was too much for him.”

Kuwale snorted derisively.

I said, “What’s ‘mix with information’ supposed to mean?”

Three said, “Every physical structure encodes information—but normally it’s the laws of physics alone which control how the structure behaves.” He grinned. “Drop a Bible and a copy of the Principia together, and they’ll fall side-by-side all the way. The fact that the laws of physics are themselves information is invisible, irrelevant. They’re as absolute as Newtonian space-time—a fixed backdrop, not a player.

“But nothing’s pure, nothing’s independent. Time and space mix at high velocities. Macroscopic possibilities mix at the quantum level. The four forces mix at high temperatures. And physics and information mix… by an unknown process. The symmetry group isn’t clear, let alone the detailed dynamics. But it could just as easily be triggered by pure knowledge—knowledge of information cosmology itself, encoded in a human brain—as by any physical extreme.”

“To what effect?”

“Hard to predict.” The blood on his face resembled a black caul in the flare’s light. “Maybe… exposing the deepest unification: revealing precisely how physics is created by explanation—and vice versa. Spinning the vector, rotating all the hidden machinery into view.”

“Yeah? If Muteba had such a great cosmic revelation… how do you know it didn’t turn him into the Keystone? The instant before he died?” I knew I was probably wasting my breath, but I couldn’t stop trying to get Mosala off the hook.

Three smirked at my ignorance. “I don’t think so. I’ve seen models of an information cosmos with a Keystone who mixed. And I know we don’t live in that universe.”

“Why?”

“Because after the Aleph moment, everyone else would get dragged along. Exponential growth: one person mixing, then two, four, eight… if that had happened in ’43, we’d all have followed Muteba Kazadi by now. We’d all know, firsthand, exactly what killed him.”

The flare descended out of sight, plunging the hold into grayness again. I invoked Witness, adapting my eyes to the ambient light again instantly.

Kuwale said, “Andrew! Listen!”

There was a deep rhythmic pulsing sound coming through the hull, growing steadily louder. I’d finally learned to recognize an MHD engine—and this one wasn’t ours.

I waited, sick with uncertainty. My hands were beginning to shake as badly as Kuwale’s. After a few minutes, there was shouting in the distance. I couldn’t make out the words—but there were new voices, with Polynesian accents.

Three said quietly, “You keep your mouth shut, or they’ll all have to die. Or is Violet Mosala worth a dozen farmers to you?”

I stared at him, light-headed. Would the rest of the ACs think like that! How many real deaths would they have to confront, before they admitted that they might be mistaken? Or had they surrendered completely to a moral calculus where even the smallest chance of the unraveling outweighed any crime, any atrocity?

The voices grew nearer, then the engine stopped; it sounded as if the fishing boat had pulled up right beside us. But I could already hear another one in the distance.

I caught snatches of a conversation: “But I leased you this boat, so it’s my responsibility. The emergency system should not have malfunctioned.” It was a deep voice, a woman’s, puzzled, reasonable, persistent. I glanced at Kuwale; vis eyes were shut, vis teeth clenched tight. The sight of ver in pain cut me up badly; I didn’t trust what I was beginning to feel for ver, but that wasn’t the point. Ve needed treatment, we had to get away.

But if I called out… how many people would I endanger?

I heard a third ship approaching. Mayday… false-alarm code… mayday… flares. The whole local fleet seemed to think that was strange enough to be worth looking into. Even if all these people were unarmed, the ACs were now completely outnumbered.

I raised my head and bellowed, “In here!”

Three tensed, as if preparing to move. I fired the gun into the floor near his head, and he froze. A wave of vertigo swept over me—and I waited for a barrage of automatic fire. I was insane— what had I done?

There were heavy footfalls on the deck, more shouting.

Twenty—and a tall Polynesian woman in blue coveralls—approached the edge of the hold.

The farmer glanced down at us, frowning. She said, “If they’ve threatened violence, gather your evidence and take it to an adjudicator back on the island. But whatever’s gone on here—don’t you think both sides would be better off separated?”

Twenty faked outrage. “They hide on board, they intimidate us with firearms, they take a man hostage! And you expect us to hand them over to you, so you can let them go free!”

The farmer looked straight at me. I couldn’t speak, but I met her gaze, and I let my right hand drop to my side. She addressed Twenty again, deadpan. “I'm happy to testify for you, about what I’ve seen here. So if they’re willing to give up their hostage and come with us—you have my word, justice won’t be compromised.”

Four other farmers appeared at the edge of the hold. Kuwale, still sitting by the wall, raised a hand in greeting, and called out something in a Polynesian language. One of the farmers laughed raucously, and replied. I felt a surge of hope. The ship was swarming with people—and when it came down to the prospect of a massacre, face-to-face, the ACs had buckled.

I put the gun in my back pocket. I shouted up, “He’s free to go!”

Three rose to his feet, looking surly. I said quietly, “She’s dead anyway. You said so yourself. You’re already savior of the universe.” I tapped my stomach. “Think of your place in history. Don’t tarnish your image now.” He exchanged glances with Twenty, then started climbing the rope ladder.

I threw the gun into a corner of the hold, then went to help Kuwale. Ve took the ladder slowly; I followed close behind, hoping I’d be able to catch ver if ve lost vis grip.

There must have been thirty farmers on deck—and eight ACs, most of them with guns, who seemed far more tense than the unarmed anarchists. I felt a reprise of horror at the thought of what might have happened. I looked around for Helen Wu, but she was nowhere in sight. Had she returned to the island during the night, to oversee Mosala’s death? I’d heard no boat… but she might have donned scuba gear, and ridden the harvester.

As we started making our way toward the edge of the deck, where a concertina bridge linked the two ships, Twenty called out, “Don’t think you’re going to walk away with stolen property.”

The farmer was losing patience; she turned to me. “Do you want to empty out your pockets, and save us all some time? Your friend needs a doctor.”

“I know.”

Twenty approached me. She looked around the deck, meaningfully, and my blood froze. It wasn’t over yet. They hoped that whatever they’d done to Mosala was irreversible by now… but they weren’t certain, and they were ready to start shooting rather than turn me loose with footage which proved that the danger was real.

They knew Mosala too well. I had no idea how I’d convince her, without it; she already believed that I’d cried wolf, once.

I had no choice, though. I invoked Witness, and wiped everything. “Okay. It’s done. It’s